


Break My Pride

by simplyprologue



Series: Our Story Not Told [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sandor didn't desert during the Battle of Blackwater, and Joffrey didn't die during his wedding. Years down the road, in the midst of winter, two forbidden lovers find solace in each other. Allusions to abuse and non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break My Pride

  
“Does it still hurt?” he asks, large, calloused fingers tracing up the web of healing flesh on Sansa’s back. Her skin looks almost silver in the moonlight, almost like ice, her hair a shade like banked fire. He had buried his face in it not long ago, the fire he would not fear to face, as her heated flesh quivered around him, her nails scratching for a hold on his back, her legs shaking as he pushed her into completion.   
  
  
This is a very dangerous game that they play. But if he is to die, Sandor Clegane would do it happily for even just the flame of Sansa Stark’s hair.   
  
  
She hums in a way that he can now read as contented, rolling over onto her side towards him, wrapping herself legs and arms around him. His fingers continue to explore the deep rivulets in her back, and he almost pretends that he can smooth them away, erase what Joffrey has done to her now, before wending his fingers through her hair, inexpertly plucking out the tangles.   
  
  
Sandor lets his hand cup the base of her skull and brings her mouth to his, and is surprised when her tongue sweeps across his lower lip before sucking it between her own. He chases her tongue into her mouth, licking along the roughness at the top of her palate before tangling his tongue with hers. He moves to pull back to look at her, but instead Sansa follows him, pushing her tongue into his mouth as she swings one leg up over his torso.   
  
  
He jolts at the feeling of her wet cunt against his stomach; she rolls her hips over him, her slit warm and moist, her hands take the lay of the muscles of his abdomen and chest as they skim further up and up to frame his face. Sansa moans into his mouth when his fingers clench the firm flesh of her arse, marking her however temporarily when he moves his fingers up to grasp at her waist, leaving fading spots of white on her already pale flesh.   
  
  
He wants to mark her. Every instinct in Sandor says to mark her—make her his in the only way he can, besides the ways he’s already had her, with his cock pulsing inside her slick cunt. He wants to show them she’s his, that Sansa Stark has chosen him to be in her bed. Not so much a lady anymore, the benefits of her title gone with her dead brother’s head. She is just the King’s concubine now, a prisoner. He could easily kiss his way down her jaw, suckle her neck, bite down on that spot at the juncture of her neck and her shoulder that makes her squirm and moan and clench down on him, bite until he tastes blood in his mouth, until it swells and bruises and none of her dresses can hide it.  
  
  
She couldn’t deny it, then. And he would do it, if he could protect her from the consequences.   
  
  
His hands move up to cup her breasts, thumbing her nipples into hard peaks, pulling them between his fingers, laughing slightly when she breaks her mouth away from him, eyes screwed shut and mouth agape, gasping, nose wrinkled. He takes the opportunity to pull her further up his chest, wrapping a forearm around the small of her back, anchoring to him and pushing her down, allowing him to reach up and take one of her pert, rosy nipples into his mouth.   
  
  
Sansa moans loudly before biting it off, wriggling against him, dragging her cunt up his stomach, leaving a trail of wetness that catches the coldness in the late-Autumn air. He sucks the pebbled nub deep into his mouth before releasing it, teasing the nub between his teeth. He licks his way to her other breast, nibbling at the soft mound of flesh before biting the pink tip and laving at it with his tongue.   
  
  
“Sandor…” She moans, voice thick with desire.   
  
  
“Gods, girl,” he laughs, nuzzling her soft flesh, scraping his stubble along her moonlight-silver skin. She gasps, working her hips against him. “You’re bloody insatiable.”   
  
  
“Do something about it,” she says, half-teasing and half-begging, but smiling. It he looks up into her face, fighting back a wince at the bruise blooming across her left cheekbone. He reaches up to stroke the skin just below it. He can’t take any of her pain away, and he knows that she wants it any way but lightly. Sansa Stark, he thinks. Battered, but not diminished.  
  
  
He’s hard, damn hard, but he grips her hips and pulls her up until her cunt is right over his mouth, her flesh moist and swollen and red and instantly he wants to taste her, to lap at her cunt until nothing is left.  
  
  
“I don’t want to suffocate you,” she chirps, desire coloring her cheeks a high shade of red, hips trembling in his grasp as she fights against his attempts to lower her down onto him.   
  
  
His eyes travel up her flat stomach to the curved undersides of her breasts and back to her face before smiling twistedly, straining his neck up to suckle her clit for one long instant, pulling back when he hears—and feels—and moan reverberate through her slender form. “Little bird, I want your cunt all over my face, now.”   
  
  
“Yes,  _ser_ ,” she breathes, slightly haughty but extremely aroused, and Sandor feels her relax into his grip, and he tightens his hold on her as he pulls her down onto his face. He opens his mouth the second she’s within reach—she tastes sweet, and rich, and tangy, strong on the rough flat of his tongue. He moves his mouth against her, tracing her opening and moaning into her flesh, sending vibrations shooting up her clit and spine, sparking somewhere low in her belly. Her hands scramble for the headboard.  
  
  
Sandor can’t help the frenzy that overcomes him now, palms traversing the flat plane of her belly, the backs of her thighs, back up her round, perfect arse, and his tongue finds every silky-wet inch of her slit, exploring and twisting around every bit of flesh before acquainting itself with the slippery node at the top of her cunt, teasing it with his tongue until the little bird is writhing and panting above him, hips swaying with his every movement against her. He scrapes the scarred side of his lips against her clit, moaning when she jerks violently, and his mouth is met with a fresh gush of wetness.   
  
  
“You’re wet for me, Sansa,” he says when he tilts his chin up for a much-needed breath. His cock leaps at her soft laugh, the way her hips sway above his face, the way they jerk when he brushes a knuckle against her clit. “Like a fucking river, tonight.”  
  
  
“Am I?” she murmurs, shaking waves of auburn hair that has only gotten darker with age from her face. She slides one hand from the headboard to slide into his straight black hair, scrape her nails across his scalp. “Like a _fucking_ river? Is that wet enough for you, Sandor?”  
  
  
He growls, and his tongue seeks out her clit, swirling around it. Sansa sucks in a deep breath and bears down on him again. He twirls around it, licks it, flicks it, before sucking it into his mouth, humming tunelessly against her quivering flesh. He can hear her breathing rapidly, panting in time with the thrusts of her hips against his mouth, can hear her nails against the wooden headboard, can hear the high whimpers.   
  
  
“Do you like taking me like this?” she asks, words floating on a moan, tugging at his hair with the hand not scratching nail marks into her headboard. She pushes down harder onto him, and he opens his mouth as wide as it will go, rubbing his tongue down from her clit to her entrance, pushing his tongue as deep inside of her as it will go. “Do you like—do you like fucking me with your mouth like this?”   
  
  
Gods, she knows what  _fuck_  tumbling from her pretty little mouth does to him.   
  
  
“Mmhhmm,” he answers as emphatically as he can with his tongue buried inside of her, fingers chasing smooth skin up to her breasts, tweaking her nipples. Her second hand joins one of his; they work her hardened flesh together.   
  
  
“I like,” she whimpers, the words shattering and turning into a pained keen, her hips starting to roll on him as he circles her clit again with his tongue. “I like this, Sandor, I like you under me, dripping on you,” he feels her tense above him, and he slides his hands down to her waist, slowing down the pace of his tongue on her clit, but moves more deliberately, and with more force. “Oh, gods be good, Sandor, it’s like you’re eating me whole.”   
  
  
This only makes him crazy—and she knows this, of course, he’s been in her bed for months now, and she knows what to say to work him into a frenzy by now—and he begins to lap at her clit fervently now, working it between his lips, brushing it against the burnt edges of his lips until she begins to shake. He wants her to come, needs her to find her release, all over him, so he can suck on her juices, so he can feel her shudder above him, hear her screams of culmination.   
  
  
Sandor can tell she’s close, whimpering in concert with the slide of his tongue, soft whimpers that are sweeter than any song that’s ever left her lips, and he holds her down, because he won’t let her go, not now, not when she’s so close—  
  
  
She leans forward, rolling her hips up to scramble for a purchase on the headboard, fighting to keep her balance above him as her hips move violently of their own volition. Sansa’s so close, and he wants her to have this so fucking badly, wants this for her when this is all that he can give to her, when he can’t keep Joffrey from having his men beat her, when he can’t keep Joffrey from torturing her, when he can’t keep Joffrey from violating her body, from taking away her songs and her stories and keeping her here like some useless songbird—no, not his Sansa, because she’s his Sansa when she’s this way, with him, squirming and flushed and sweaty—  
  
  
“Oh gods,” she moans, shaky, voice building. Sandor’s fingers brush her cleft from behind as his mouth focuses solely on her clit. “Yes, please, oh gods please, Sandor, please—“  
  
  
He slips one finger inside, and then two, thrusting them deeply inside her as he tugs at her clit. Her moans grow shallow, and high, teetering on becoming screams when he works a third finger inside of her, and he moans with her, her cunt like hot wet silk, clenching his fingers when he crooks them, scraping down the front of her channel until he finds the patch of rough tissue, working his fingers against it.  
  
  
This makes her cry out even louder, and shift her hips against his hand, but Sandor holds her steady and Sansa cries out again, throwing her mane of red hair back, throat exposed and eyes shut tight against every other sense except the feel of his mouth and fingers against her, his hand on her hip.   
  
  
She chants his name with every movement together, mingling it with pleas to the Gods and invocations to any deity listening as she chases her culmination, just out of reach. Her thighs press tightly around his ears and her hips work harder, faster against the suck of his lips on her clit.   
  
  
Sandor growls when one of her hands returns to his hair, pulling sharply and arches her back almost violently, a gush of new wetness flowing onto his tongue, tangy and raw. He can taste her as she comes, inner muscles clenching around his fingers, and it’s like Seven Heavens, her loud, uninhibited moans echoing deliciously in her chambers.   
  
  
“Oh… gods,” she moans as he laps at her, swallowing it. “Sandor,” moans every time his tongue so much as grazes her clit as the waves of release continue to wash over her slight frame.  
  
  
She eventually moves her hips away, and he slowly pulls his fingers out of her, careful of her over-sensitized slit. He looks up to see her looking down at him with a soft, contented smile, a blush still reaching across her cheeks and chest.   
  
  
“I think I pulled some of your hair out,” she says sheepishly, blue eyes heavily-lidded and, for the moment, unburdened. She combs her fingers through his hair as if to sooth him.   
  
  
“I don’t think a few lost hairs matters in the long run, woman.”   
  
  
He only calls her woman after they lay together, Sansa thinks. She’s five and ten, almost six and ten. She’ll be a woman proper soon. Maybe… just maybe. She won’t give thought to that yet. But she will have to plant the thought in Joffrey’s head soon.   
  
  
“What does, then?” she asks, climbing down and off Sandor’s body. She bites her lip, tensing as aftershocks roil through her woman’s parts, sighing as Sandor cradles her against his chest. He looks down at her, eyebrow raised. She crawls up his body, cupping his cheeks in her hands, kissing him lightly, tasting herself on him.   
  
  
Her hand slips down his body to fondle his erect cock, working it between her nimble fingers. “I am six and ten in a few months, my love, and I will come into my claim. What do you think the Lannisters mean to do to me?”  
  
  
They both know it is coming—neither of them is unintelligent. They have had to use their minds as a means of survival.   
  
  
“But do not worry,” Sansa whispers, curtains of auburn hair falling over their faces as she joins their lips again. She wraps her hand around him tighter, smiling into his eyes when she draws back to look at him. “I have a plan.”  



End file.
